


Outmaneuvered

by Carpe Natem (Demeanor)



Series: Twelve Days of Solstice [3]
Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Badass Barristan, Barry Loves Them All, Christmas Tree, Gen, Mild Gore, Roster Family Feels, Shirtless Barristan Chopping Down a Tree, winter fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28104204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demeanor/pseuds/Carpe%20Natem
Summary: Too much downtime leaves Barristan restless, and with his youthful counterparts at the Hamlet uninspired and lazy, the Man-at-Arms knows exactly how to bolster their morale.
Series: Twelve Days of Solstice [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057325
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	Outmaneuvered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SeaBassToast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaBassToast/gifts).



**Outmaneuvered**

Barristan was bored. 

The Heir had ordered a freeze on any expeditions for the next few weeks due to the heavy snow that had blanketed the Hamlet, so Barristan spent his overabundance of freetime training, whether that be in the training ring, at the guild, or even within the barracks.

Currently, it was mid-morning, yet some of the beds were still occupied -- and in a certain Crusader and Highwayman’s case, _doubly_ occupied. Barristan was instantly irked by the full beds of the barracks; not that he gave a single damn of who a man spent his nights with, no, not after serving most of his adult life in one war campaign or another. The company didn’t bother him, a soldier took small comforts wherever he could and with _whomever_ he could, but those comforts didn’t include sleeping until _lunch._

In his mounting irritation, Barristan took off his gloves, lowered himself to the floor, then started on a set of pushups, enjoying the familiar strain in his arms and shoulders. It was refreshing and eased his boredom: he was old, far older than any of the other heroes here, he knew, and therefore had to overcompensate to stay on top of his growing age. 

“What are you bothering with that for, old man?” Tardif groaned when Barristan started to hiss out each breath, the man either piteously hungover from the night before or still drunk. "S'nothing to train for without expeditions."

Barristan looked up at Tardif, soft with gluttony, then over at Reynauld and Dismas’ prone forms, lost to lust, and growled to himself as he finished his pushups. He would _not_ be taken by lethargy or vice like the others had been. "You don't need a war to be prepared for one, son," his voice was gruff with strain. Tardif merely snorted and rolled over, putting a pillow overhead to block out the sounds coming from both the Man-at-Arms and the occupied bed in the corner.

 _Hmph_. Worthless louts, lazing about like they were on a vacation.

When _he_ was their age, Barristan was the first awake, ready to start the day, and if he wasn’t, then he’d have hell to pay with his commanding officer.

Things were a lot simpler back when he didn’t have to worry about Eldritch creations cropping up unexpectedly; there was only so much planning and preparing Barristan could do when it came to otherworldly gods making pawns of them all. Barristan had an entire lifetime of experience fighting _men_ and their machinations, and knew all their weaknesses and more -- but when it came to a fleshy amalgamation of discarded pig skin, merged with an Eldritch deity, the Man-at-Arms felt wildly out of his depth. 

The only way he might even begin to rectify that was through keeping himself prepared. 

If refusing to let his body succumb to age kept the others in the roster alive, then Barristan would train until his hands bled and his knees ached. Barristan truly cared for his roster family, despite them being so Light-damned _indulgent_ lately. When they were in their fighting prime on an expedition together, they were like a well-oiled machine, and Barristan worked hard to create and enact appropriate strategies to complete the mission and get everyone home safely. 

_Now_ , though, at the first sign of downtime, they likened themselves to new recruits, green around the edges and quick to fall to vice and lethargy. 

Luckily, Barristan had just the thing to wake them up and remind them of their commitment to the Hamlet and its denizens they had sworn to protect when they conscripted. Every winter at war, Barristan had developed a tactic to energize the youth and raise their morale, especially those who were spending their first winter Solstice away from their families. 

Barristan had been on campaigns for long enough that, at times, it was hard for him to keep perspective on how disheartening it could be for the recruits around winter time. The weather was grueling and oftentimes dangerous, and being apart from old loved ones and winter traditions was detrimental to their spirits. Barristan was sympathetic, though, and long ago devised a plan that always had a knack for instilling and strengthening the bond between his men-at-arms:

Putting up a Solstice tree.

"I have a job for you laggards," Barristan announced in his most commanding voice, expecting the other men in the room to immediately snap to attention.

They didn't. Even Reynauld remained distracted, despite his past duties as a soldier. 

The Man-at-Arms merely cleared his voice patiently, _loudly_ , and tried again. "It’s of the utmost importance and must be completed as quickly as possible. Tardif, we'll need your axe. You two, Reynauld and Dismas, get dressed immediately. I want you out the door in five." It was backed with all the authority he could muster, yet no one showed any sign of urgency to obey.

"Will there be gold?" Tardif mumbled. 

To his side and beneath their blanket, Dismas called out, "Give us another twenty minutes or so, gramps. Better yet, come back in an hour."

In a lower, quieter tone, Barristan could hear Reynauld scold the Highwayman, and beyond that, Barristan very much ignored all other sounds coming from that direction and rolled his eye in irritation. To Tardif, Barristan merely growled his frustration about being twice most of their ages yet being the most capable of them by far, grabbed the Bounty Hunter's discarded axe, and left the barracks.

The air outside was cold and crisp with the season, not in a _pleasant_ way that enticed sledding or snowball fights, but a deeper, more threatening chill that promised hypothermia if Barristan wasn’t well prepared for it.

He was well enough prepared for what he was planning, though, alone or not.

With a heft of Tardif’s axe up to his shoulder and a final look at the barracks, Barristan took to the Old Road and murmured, “If there are miracles to be had here, then I am no saint.”

…

It didn’t take long to find the perfect tree for Solstice. 

Luckily so, since Barristan was out in enemy territory by himself, though he made sure to stay close enough to the Old Road to avoid any unexpected run-ins with creatures of the weald or ruins. The last thing he needed was to encounter a wandering giant or be ambushed by a group of cultists while he was abnormally equipped; he had Tardif’s axe in one hand and his shield in another and felt slightly off balanced without the comfortable weight of his mace.

The fir in particular was gorgeous and nearly two stories tall, lest Barristan’s eye deceive him, with a trunk as wide around as he was. He’d have to be strategic in how he managed to drag it back to the Hamlet, but he was confident in his abilities and was more concerned with the process of chopping it down.

“Time to show these greenhorns what an old dog is capable of,” Barristan huffed to the frigid air, gripped Tardif’s axe in a gauntleted hand, then got to work.

A powerful _crack_ rang across the snow and a familiar wave of shock ran up to Barristan’s shoulders, forging a wide grin on his face, and when he yanked the axe head back, a fresh slash marred the log before him. He hefted and swung again, then again, the beat of the axe on wood throwing chips of both bark and branch to the air and loosening snow from the tops of the fir. Tree cones fell around him, promising life to eventually replace this one once Barristan managed to haul it off.

It was slow-going, strenuous and meticulous work that Barristan reveled in, the mindless swing of his arms, the brace of his thighs, the sweat of his brow. It felt _good_ to be working, to be doing something useful since there was currently little else to do in the Hamlet but waste time.

That child of an Heir could have them running formation, practicing drills, developing strategy against the Eldritch beasts that sought their very souls, and yet, the adventurers of the Hamlet remained listless until called upon. The young boy still had a lot to learn about leadership, and Barristan had half a mind to tell him so upon returning to the Hamlet with the tree in tow. 

Swing, _crack._ Swing, _crack._

Over and over, it was a soothing, _fulfilling_ repetition Barristan could get lost in. 

His endeavors to protect the Heir, the other heroes, and the Hamlet at large were superfluous things, hard to gauge and harder to predict, which left him frustrated at times. A man like Barristan preferred to have a _visceral_ measure of effort, something where his progress was obvious to him, and what better way than felling a once infallible tree? 

The codes of war, discipline, and honor churned in his otherwise blank mind as he chopped, nearing halfway through the meat of the tree, arms still strong as they pumped.

Never send others to fight in a war you’re not willing to fight yourself _._

_Chop!_

Let your actions defend you, not your words.

_Chop!_

Lead as you would be led.

_Chop!_

With a singular, resounding crack, Barristan felt the momentum of his swing deliver the final blow as the weight of the tree shifted, creaked, then plunged right where he had planned for it to. He stepped out of its range with ease, feeling his knees ache with the cold and his arms throb with the sudden fatigue of a job well done as the tree crashed to the earth in a flurry of snow and tree needles. It had been painfully loud to his ears, and suddenly Barristan was on edge, willing the weariness from his body to make as quick of a retreat as was possible with the massive fir tree.

Sure enough, by the time Barristan had managed to fasten the bottom of the tree with some sturdy rope, he heard the telltale sounds of an ambush and quickly drew his shield and Tardif’s axe. His arms and back twinged with the strain, but he ignored his body’s aches.

“Show yourself, cowards,” he barked to the treeline, senses alert. 

_There_ , to his right -- of course his attackers would favor his blind side -- he caught sight of movement and raised his shield just in time to deflect the lead bullet aimed at his head.

He snorted loudly, irritated at their lack of showmanship and a quick glance down at the ruined musket ball at his feet and Barristan instantly recognized the make of it. After all, he had seen the sort thousands of times in his lifetime of campaigns to never forget the design, as these rats always seemed to slink back into the Man-at-Arm’s life somehow. “Firearms are the _craven_ way, brigand!” 

At his taunt, Barristan watched as the hidden brigand assailants crept out from the shadows of the treeline, sneers and greed and bloodshed lining their faces beneath their bandit hoods as they leered at him. A massive bloodletter cracked his cat o’ nine tails whip in challenge and a jagged cutthroat grinned a yellow smile as he drew his blades. 

The fusilier that had shot at Barristan a moment ago hung back in the shadows, reloading his musket while his melee companions approached menacingly. _Hmph_. Thought him easy pickings because he was alone, did they? 

Barristan would happily show them otherwise.

He sized up each of the men before him with a critical eye, dismantling their weaknesses with a stratagem’s practiced discipline: the gunman was meant to keep him on his toes, making it harder to reliably dodge the melee attacks. The cutthroat was for precise, deadly damage and the bloodletter was to draw his attention as an impassable shield for the smaller men. Barristan was weak from felling the massive tree, but he knew his limits well and was nowhere near them _yet_ \-- he could handle this, though he would need to move quickly, before the fusilier reloaded.

Axe raised, Barristan bellowed, hoping to distract his enemies and bolster his own resolve, then surged forward with the weight of an iron wall. 

The cutthroat was stunned by his roar, so Barristan aimed the axeblade for him but was quickly blocked by the enormous oaf of a bloodletter, a snarl beneath his cowl and a puff of his barrel chest. Not a second later, a rain of whips barraged Barristan, who held his shield up to ward off the bulk of the damage and threw the bloodletter back with a hefty shove of his shield arm. 

_Incompetent fools!_ he thought with another empowering shout.

With the bloodletter out of his way, Barristan advanced, breaking their line and surging forward like a battering ram. The cutthroat was ready for him, though, recovered from his stun, and dipped to the side, slashing at Barristan’s exposed face. 

Even with one eye, Barristan saw it coming from a mile away and used his shield to block, then with a surge of strength, riposted back in an angry slash with Tardif’s axe. Though it was weighted differently than the Man-at-Arm’s familiar mace, it still met its mark and sunk into supple flesh, and with the world glinting red with steaming blood for a moment, Barristan pushed on until the cutthroat’s neck was cleaved in twain. It was no easy feat, and though both his arms and legs tempted to waver at the first sign of resistance, the cutthroat fell to the pristine snow with a gurgle and at Barristan’s victorious roar. 

In a moment’s notice, the bloodletter’s hulking weight was upon him with his punishment of whips, flails catching Barristan’s cheek, neck, and shoulder with a stinging kiss that Barristan had anticipated. He could take a few more scars if it meant catching the burly bloodletter off guard -- a commander was only as good as his ability to read his enemy’s next move, after all.

Having the whips so close and in his field of vision gave Barristan the upper hand as he snatched the cat o’ nine tails in mid air, writhing like snakes, bits of his blood flecking the ends.

The bloodletter was trapped, then, aghast at Barristan’s tactics and wide open to an attack from Barristan’s borrowed axe. Staring the larger man in the eye, Barristan huffed a laugh, then growled, “You’ve been outmaneuvered, son,” before bringing the axe down.

Not unlike when Barristan fell the massive tree, the ground shook and the snow burst beneath the weight of the fallen bloodletter, who lay twitching in the ice as he bled out and paled with death, critical artery severed and white as the frost surrounding them. This group had been novices at best, brigand recruits sent to die carelessly in a fight over as suddenly as it had begun. Barristan spit a pocket of blood from his mouth, irritated that he had to sustain a blow to the face in order to position himself where he needed to be, but before he could tend to it, a shot rang out harshly, a sharp pain in his ears.

He tried to get his shield up in time, but his arms were slowed with strain and he took the hit square in his chest, denting his armor inwards and making him gasp out, winded.

Shaking the stars from his eyes and the pain from his mind, Barristan looked up, hot with righteous fury at being blindsided by the remaining fusilier who, in the Man-at-Arms’ fight with the other two brigand bastards, had managed to sneak back into the forest unnoticed. Barristan scanned the treeline with his one good eye, measuring the angle of the shot and quickly determining where the fusilier brat had positioned himself. If he focused, he could even hear the small brigand’s unhinged, panicked breathing as Barristan advanced towards him, axe bloodied and armor dented and rage spurring him on. 

When he got close enough to hear the fusilier gasp and fumble with his musket, Barristan stopped, gathered his most authoritative voice, the one that had been wasted among the Hamlet’s heroes that morning, and shouted, “ _Come out and face your death, coward!_ ”

A long stretch of silence passed, and Barristan was about to go drag the bastard out himself until --

A young boy broke through the bramble, hands up, face pale, fear in his eyes that only grew when he caught sight of Barristan’s surely grisly appearance. He could still feel the blood dripping from his cheek and neck, just below his eyepatch, and with his chestplate dented inwards from the fusilier’s shot, it labored his breathing to something menacing. 

His gauntleted hand was tight around the hilt of Tardif’s axe, wrapped with reinforced leather now soaked in viscera, but loosened when he saw just how… _young_ the brigand was.

He couldn’t have been older than his teen years, small that he was, thin and frail and _fearful_ as he was. His leathers were far too big for him and had clearly been borrowed or handed down, frayed and stained and ill-fitting, and when Barristan squinted, he saw a shadow of patchy facial hair on the boy’s face. Barristan expected the small fusilier to get on his knees, beg for his life, govel and weep and sob, or otherwise try some additional underhanded trick that his brigand brethren might have attempted with Barristan off guard. 

But he remained silent, eyes wide, clearly out of his depth.

It… It reminded Barristan of one of his many failures, years passed and long dead. A young lad he had been charged with escorting to safety, by both his superiors and his own morality, assigned to carry the boy through the fray of battle to their rendezvous mark.

Through swords, spears, bombs and worse. Through very hell itself, fire and brimstone. 

The Man-at-Arms had been relentless, had been a barbaric force of battle roars, offense and defense, of stalwart determination to get the kid to safety. His charge, his mission, his _duty_ , for what was a soldier without duty? What was a man without _morality_ ? A leader without _unbreakable resolve_?

A **_failure_ **.

He had failed. 

Even now, most nights were visited by that dying child, his fallen _objective_ , as the man and the soldier warred within him, neither at peace with his heart wrenching efforts.

In these round, wide eyes, glossy with fearful tears, the fusilier shook before him as he remained silent, hands still raised in surrender. This _child_ wasn’t his enemy, and Barristan took a deep, steadying breath to allay his weary bones, still ready for bloodshed, before speaking.

“What’s your name, lad?”

He heard a shaky exhale, as if the small fusilier hadn’t been expecting to be addressed before his demise, and when he finally answered, his voice shook with his hands. “Sh-Shia…”

“You should have chosen a different path, Shia.”

The Man-at-Arms voice was tired, _bored_ , while the young man’s voice was barely above a whisper, scared as he was. He watched as the kid glanced to his fallen men, the headless cutthroat and the white-as-snow bloodletter, corpses ravaged in a day’s work of violence and survival, a macabre sight for a child -- for _anyone_ \-- to have witnessed. The young fusilier’s nightmares would be plagued by that, surely, but sometimes a soldier _needed_ a wakeup call and this seemed to be his.

“I-I know.”

Barristan furrowed his brow threateningly, gathered his strength, would have puffed out his broad chest if not for the dent of armor still lodged in his ribcage from the boy’s opportune musket shot, and when he spoke, his voice was that of a commander’s. “I’m going to give you until the count of five to leave my sight for good.”

It took a moment for that to register in the brigand boy’s mind because he fumbled, _stumbled_ , feet unsteady as he looked around himself as if wondering which direction led to salvation as Barristan called the first number.

“One.”

He moved towards the bushes, then, as if to retrieve his discarded musket, and Barristan was tense with his riposte reaction until he sharply called out, “ _Two_.”

That seemed to send the lad reeling in an indecisive panic, searching each direction for safety before Barristan yelled, “ _Three!_ ” and provoked the small brigand wildly into the opposite direction, taking off at a run out of the clearing and away from Barristan and the corpses of his brigand fellows. For good measure, Barristan drew in a large breath, as large as the ruined breastplate allowed, gathered his command, and shouted across the snow of the Old Road, “ **_Four!_ **”

After a long pause of listening to see if the lad returned for his gun, returned for a fight he wouldn’t win, Barristan released his breath in an exhausted exhale that stirred the icy air at his lips. He let the final number of his countdown fall off, no longer needing the intimidation of a commander in a battle of wills against his subordinates, and chuckled lowly.

The countdown trick _always_ worked against youngsters.

To himself, Barristan said a small prayer for the fusilier, hoping upon hope that the lad would find a different calling lest they meet on the Old Road once more and Barristan was bereft of further mercy. The Man-at-Arms couldn’t do anything for the unfortunate lives lost in past wars, youth gone from this world too soon at Barristan’s own shortcomings, but he could do something about _this_ young man’s life, Barristan mused hollowly. It wouldn’t cleanse him of his sins -- _nothing_ would any longer, not the church nor tavern -- but this would keep the red from seeping into his wretched soul any further. 

Light knew he needed the break from indiscriminate carnage, and as Barristan unequipped his ruined armor then lashed it to the tree, he felt noticeably lighter in both body and soul.

The cold nipped at his bare skin as soon as he exposed himself, but Barristan would sooner risk hypothermia than tempt asphyxiation by inward dented steel plate, especially while he was hefting the tree to the Hamlet. Without any provisions to allow him bandages, Barristan ripped off his shirt thereafter and tied it to his neck and shoulder to staunch the flow and, now bare of chest, strapped the ropes of the tree trunk to himself and _hoisted._

…

It was nearing dusk by the time Barristan managed to drag the massive tree to the gates of the Hamlet.

He had forced himself to _focus,_ to _struggle_ and _succeed_ in his weary endeavors, for if anyone were to ask Barristan what guaranteed progress and growth in a soldier, in a _man_ , it was his preparedness for hardship and his will to endure them. 

Barristan was well-versed in both in his old age.

The snow crunched and seeped with his sweat and darkened to red beneath him, drained that he was from the effort of dragging the tree home, of fighting for his and others’ lives, and of chopping down the fir mere hours ago. Barristan had trained every day since the Heir had ordered the freeze on the Hamlet’s expeditions, but even with weeks of exercise and drills under his belt, he was exhausted. 

Still, he pressed on, and when he passed the threshold of the Hamlet’s gates, he was greeted with a crowd of other heroes, worry and relief lining their faces, plus an angered Heir.

The Heir was older than the fusilier at least, though not by much, and Barristan always held a brief air of animus at first glance, but stamped that down out of respect. While The Heir was nearly half of Barristan’s age, the Man-at-Arms had been conscripted as equally and wholly as the rest of their heroes and would live -- and die -- by the Heir’s orders.

His young commanding officer sighed in relief when he saw Barristan’s return.

Suddenly, the Man-at-Arms felt his burden lighten noticeably as Tardif, Reynauld, and Dismas all lined up behind him and grabbed varying portions of the tree to help Barristan haul it off to the center of town square. Once placed, they used the ropes Barristan had tied around the massive tree trunk to set it upright, and with Barristan’s guidance, got to work on lashing it into place, suspending it erect and fastened to the cobblestones. The branches all fell back into place beautifully, as if it had never been removed from the snow of the Old Road, and the other men took a step back to admire it.

After a long, peaceful moment passed, the chill still nipping at Barristan’s naked but sweaty chest, he turned to the others, to Tardif specifically, and held out the bloodied axe. “Here. I appreciate you letting me use it in your absence.”

As if he’d given the Bounty Hunter the choice in the man’s hungover state this morning, though Tardif nodded respectfully and said, “Sorry I wasn’t there.”

To his side, Dismas shifted back and forth, hiding his face behind his scarf as he was prone to do, before he apologized for their earlier descent into vice, promising to be there for the Man-at-Arms next time. The Crusader apologized as well then healed the various wounds across the older man’s tired body; Barristan valued their redress for their earlier lethargy as much as he valued their vow to do better by him once the expeditions resumed after winter. 

Eventually, when the other adventurers and townspeople of the Hamlet saw the massive tree in the squalid center, everyone gathered around it with various lights and decorations, and for a soft moment, Barristan felt at peace. It wasn’t often that he did _good,_ pure unadulterated _good_ for the greater cause without some margin of sacrifice or failure or compromise. 

Seeing the smiles and genuine serenity on everyone’s faces as they decorated it…

It filled Barristan with a rare, precious sense of _peace_. 

“That was _reckless_ ,” the Heir’s uncharacteristically harsh, unforgiving voice pierced his blanket of tranquility pleasantly draped over his tired, weary body, and Barristan looked up from where he was sitting on the bench, regarding the young, equally fatigued Heir with a single eye. The Heir turned to face him, unflinching, cheeks red with both the cold and his frustration, and continued, “I would have expected that from a younger, newer recruit, but not from _you_ , Barristan. _You_ , who should know better than to run off alone. _You_ , who I trusted to be mindful of duty and obligation to the Hamlet.”

Barristan snorted, too exhausted to give much of a fight, lest he wind up putting the young whelp in his place.

Instead, Barristan merely took a long, tired breath, looked the Heir directly in the eye, and said with unshakeable confidence: “You have a lot to learn about leading, son. A soldier’s downtime is just as important as the time he spends in battle -- too many battles and he turns soft in the head. Too much downtime, and he turns soft in body. You need to find a balance, else your squadron of well-trained fighters will be lost to vice without your guidance.”

The Heir seemed defensive for a moment, as he always was when Barristan offered him unsolicited advice, but as the two men watched the denizens of the Hamlet, hero and civilian alike, come together around the stunningly decorated tree, the Heir seemed to soften.

There was singing and laughing, an air of merriment filled with Audrey’s hyena laugh at something Dismas did and Sarmenti’s melodious lute with Baldwin’s Solstice poetry.

It was more than the morale of useful soldiers being bolstered.

Everyone was _happy_ for once. 

Barristan watched them all with tired muscles and aching joints, the never-ending ghost of his wounds and his past failures that haunted him now abating in the wake of the Hamlet’s delight and well-being. He cared for each and every one of them, carelessly laughing and relaxing, and Barristan would die to see to their happiness, he knew, laggards or not.

“Perhaps tomorrow, you could teach me,” the Heir spoke humbly, respectfully, with a hint of inspiration to his voice. “Until then, you should rest. You’ve earned it, Barristan.”

Reluctantly, Barristan nodded -- a veteran knew when it was time to march and when it was time to rest -- and felt his uncovered eye drooping and his smiling straining from the effects of exhaustion, of a day well spent training, fighting, _living._ He was the Hamlet’s defense, in body and spirit, viscerally and emotionally, proudly, unshakably so, and after a long day of being their resolute stalwart…

Barristan was finally ready to rest.

**Author's Note:**

> This was the only way I could think of adding Shia to the dd-verse for you, SeaBassToast. We had talked about a shirtless Barristan cutting down a tree for his roster fam, and I hope this is what you had envisioned. 
> 
> I'll have another winter one-shot out tomorrow as well (with luck, I can stick to my daily schedule!)
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. I'm not sure if many people are looking for feel-good MaA family fics in this fandom, but I had a lot of fun exploring him and his "In MY day, we..." granddad, brick wall personality.


End file.
